Treatment

I just came back from a walk on a warmish early spring evening. It was exactly what I needed.

I've spent all of this Sunday working, working, working - as I spent Saturday, Friday, and every day before that. Weekends tend to be the busiest. How strange is that?

Rhetorical question, of course. It's very strange.

I walked alongside the still-frozen lake that confirms how bitterly cold and long this winter was, since the entire body of water had turned to solid ice, from sun-chewed surface to muddy bottom. And, as I ambled - walking stick in my grip to ward off potential coyotes, bears, or other creatures that might want a piece of my weary flesh - I thought of what an evening this would be for writing.

Writing is who I am, what I've always been. I was born inquisitive and simply grew more insatiably curious as I grew up. The fact that I write some of it down, now and then, is simply fulfillment of my contract with myself. Not with the universe, who doesn't give a shite if we write or binge Netflix all weekend long - but with myself.

I did some writing yesterday, and I'm proud of that, particularly after visiting the local high school on Friday and was asked by one writing student: "How many hours would you say you write in a day?" I gave an honest answer ("Right now? None, because life is so busy being an author and university teacher and doing the freakin' dishes and laundry." That's a paraphrase, though.) I prefaced that response, of course, by saying, "When I was young and prolific, I wrote for several hours every single day, birthdays and Christmas included." But, now, the sad fact is that I'm too busy to write every day.

Something's changing for me, though. During this semester - in which I not only taught university courses and put off an exhibition at the AX, Arts and Culture Centre of Sussex gallery, which took many months of planning and execution -  I forced myself to write whenever I could, and sometimes, most often, even when I felt I couldn't.

The result is that when this semester ends, I'll more easily slip into my writing clothes. For a couple of decades now, when the academic year ended, I would look forward to a summer of writing, but it would always take 3-4 weeks before the exhaustion of the teaching year had left my brain and bones. This time, I feel different. I did a little writing this evening - "no time, Granny, no  time!" I hear the wolf explain to Red's grandmother on The Bugs Bunny show - "Land's sake, Wolfie - aren't ya gonna eat me?" she asked. He pulls her out of bed and shoves her into a closet (or maybe under the bed - I don't remember. I'd Google it, but I don't have time) and says, "No time, Granny, no time!" I feel that way a lot - no time for obedience to my nature and nourishment, only time to react to the latest crisis.

But I made time. You have to make time. It's what matters. It's what separates us from the beasts - or the rest of humanity - that driven devotion to scribble things down so we can figure it out and before we forget, and before we grow too old and feeble, or die altogether.

I was reminded of that fact today, again: we all die.

Fuck. I was reminded. And I hate that fact. There's no beauty in that for me. I found out the husband of a friend has cancer. He'll be okay, apparently, after treatment. But, then, I'm not sure any of us really are okay, regardless of treatment - maybe treatment is the problem, to begin with. We're all in remission. We all need a cure.

This is mine. Walking. Running. Writing. Thinking. Breathing. Feeling. Knowing. Hoping.

Where I walk doesn't matter.
Where I run won't wait forever.
What I write depends on what the muses are smoking that day.
What I think evolves with each word I write, every word I listen to, every face I remark.
What I breathe depends too much on big business and government, but I can choose where.
What I feel is urgency. Tiredness. An overwhelming need to say something true and let it ring out.
What I know is too dark for words.
What I hope is that I am wrong about many things.
But everybody knows what they think they know.